


Spare The Rod

by Sanguineheroine



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Caning, Kink Meme, M/M, Slash, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanguineheroine/pseuds/Sanguineheroine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Traditional Victorian sexing always comes with a decent spanking.  Much like Victorian gentleman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spare The Rod

I am ready when he comes to me; I have been for some time. I make no claims to patience, however, just to being firmly tethered.

In my mind, I follow his progress through the sitting room; the slight shuffling of his injured leg and the crisp tapping of his cane on the boards, then muffled by wool as he crosses the hearth. He stops to light a cigarette and I can hear that too; the scrape of the match on the go-to-bed and his unconscious sigh as he exhales. The scent of his tobacco precedes him into the room. My cock stirs.

It was his light cane; the slim birch with the curved silver handle that he carried only on fine, clear days when his injured leg was not troublesome, and we hunted no quarry.

Occasionally, though, he does hunt quarry with it, but I never run far.

The key turns in the lock and the door swings open. I crane my neck to look at him and he allows me a heartbeat’s pause to absorb the immaculate suit, the freshly-shined boots and the pale length of cane that he holds firmly between his square hands. Too soon, he drawls warningly

“Eyes forward, Holmes.”

And I have little choice but to comply.

With my eyes fixed on the peeling join in the wallpaper I curve my back a little more, forcing my hips back and hollowing my already flat stomach. I hear a whisper of wool as he brings the cane up for the blow.

It whistles through the air and I tighten my buttocks, anticipating the strike.

The first blow stings and I force myself to breathe deeply, countering the sudden speeding of my heart.

“Thank you,” I stutter, my voice is tight and hoarse from hours of silence.

“Thank you, _Sir_ ,” he growls, and there is a soft shuffling of fabric as his coat falls to the floor.

“Thank you, Sir,” I hiss through clenched teeth as he lands another biting blow. My skin is afire and my pulse beats frantically along the welts on my hide. I breathe again, trying to force the blood from my head. My mind clouds and begins to float away, buoyed up by the heavy thudding of my heart and the aching stinging of my skin. I am only this; a body, pain, and a racing muscle.

Another strike, and another, and another until I am gasping for air and the tight swelling of my skin is matched by the unbearable throbbing of my cock. When I flinch and shift the damp head bobs against my stomach, sticking and slipping in a mixture of sweat and pearly desire.

He pauses in his labours, and a thousand miles distant I observe the click of his suspenders and the rustling of his shirt and trousers. He kneels behind me on the bed; arms over my shoulders and his cane stretched across my throat, forcing my head back. His teeth are at my neck, my collarbones and sinking into the taught flesh of my upper arms. The sudden bright thread of pain rips a growling cry from me and the hidden corner of my mind that is still man is appalled at the tortured beast I have become; the beast I have allowed him to make of me.

The cane falls across my knees and his hands withdraw from me. When they return a moment later, sliding across my breast and stomach they are slick and smelling of sweet oil. He sets them on my hips, lifting my body and spreading my tingling legs wide. Unasked, I grip the bedstead with my still-cuffed hands and drop my head.

He runs a single finger gently down my bowed spine, tracing the quivering whorls of muscle and bone and then with that same finger circles the entrance to my body.

I open easily to him, proving the worth of practise and preparation, and he groans. He strokes two fingers across that hidden place inside me and while I am still gasping he withdraws and replaces them with his cock.

I buck and moan and curse, rattling the cuffs against the bedstead and he curves sinuously to meet every twist of my body. For a few perfect, endless moments there is nothing but primal rhythm and the sweet slap of flesh meeting flesh then he reaches underneath my belly and grips me tight.

Hours of anticipation and silence and pain come to a thundering climax under my skin and I reach my glory with a howl, throwing my head back and arching my back against his chest. He kneels up, fitting his thighs against mine and with his last desperate thrust my head falls back upon his shoulder.

His bite sinks deep into the flesh of my neck and the warm blood spills from me at the same moment that his scorching seed spills into me. In that fleeting moment I am both the altar and the sacrifice and then he is gentling me with long, slow, stroking touches to my flanks and I am only myself again; imperfect and broken and loved.

I do not feel him remove the cuffs; but I know they are gone when he lowers me to the tangled sheets and gathers me to him, pillowing my damp head on his shoulder and whispering fervent thanks into my ear.

“Thank you,” he mutters as I start to awaken “thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Thank you, _Sir_ ,” I croak out as he passes me a lit cigarette.

“Thank you, Sir,” he echoes laughingly, drawing the blanket up over us.


End file.
